


happily ever after

by basha



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: (partially), Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Plans For The Future, Pre-Canon, they're so soft but only for each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:55:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basha/pseuds/basha
Summary: Cato and Clove have stuck together their whole lives. They have their future all planned out. But when the reaping doesn't go down the way they expected, plans change.
Relationships: Cato/Clove (Hunger Games)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	happily ever after

**Author's Note:**

> I tried not to make them too soft, but I'm a sap, so they might be just a little ooc. 
> 
> Enjoy!

When they say Clove's name at the reaping, Cato’s heart stops. Because there’s a plan, see, and the plan is he wins this year and she wins the year after and they live happily ever after in the Victor’s Village. She’s not supposed to be anywhere near this year, it’s supposed to be some chick named Mavis, who’s been tapped to volunteer. Except her name gets called and Mavis doesn’t volunteer, doesn’t say anything, and there is silence, and then Clove is walking up to the platform, smirking. 

Cato doesn’t even listen to who the boy that gets reaped is, he just shouts: “I volunteer!” He shoves his way to the stage, trying to put on his best TV face, which Clove tells him is half angry and half confident. He feels both now. Anger at everything: fate, Mavis, the Capitol, even Clove. And confident, too, because in the ten seconds between the realization that Clove is going into the games and the reaping of the boy Cato replaced, he came up with a plan. 

They give them time to say goodbye to their loved ones, but the only loved one Cato ever had was Clove, and he’s not allowed to see her yet. His parents and his trainers come in and tell him to make them proud, and he promises them he will. He’s relieved when the Peacekeepers come to take him to the train. 

Cato says the words before the train has even left the station, before their capitol escort can pretend to introduce them to their mentors, before he’s even looked at Clove.

“She’s the victor,” he announces. Clove whirls at him and he can already see the anger, the how-dare-you look that’s sure to be in her eyes, but he ignores her. He’s eighteen years old and as of half an hour ago decided he’s not going to live to nineteen, he doesn’t have it in him to deal with her emotions right now. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” She hisses.

“You’re coming back alive,” he says. “Get used to it.” Their mentors and their escort exchange looks, and it’s the escort who speaks first.

“Fine,” he says. “As long as you give them a good show.”

Cato doesn’t remember a time before they were preparing for the games, and he doesn’t remember a time before Clove. Which is a good thing. She’s the only thing that keeps him sane. (And she’s not even that good at it.) 

As long as Cato can remember, Clove’s been everything to him. In his very first memory, they’re together in their favorite cave in the quarry, which is exactly equidistant between their two houses. They’re not really supposed to be there, but no one ever stops them, because their parents are fairly powerful people and they’re sort of the district’s future hope. They come there anytime that things get rough at home for either of them, which means that they’re there a lot. 

In the memory, he and Clove are wrestling, pretending they’re in the games. They’re somewhere around five, and already jaded beyond their years. He’s much bigger than her, and much stronger, but she’s not afraid to bite and he knows it. They end up with her on top, perched on his chest, holding his wrists down. He could definitely roll over and throw her off, but she might hit her head, and he can’t allow that.

“And then I kill you,” Clove says. “But you’re my best friend, so I’ll make it quick.”

“Better slice my neck open,” he says. “Quick and easy.”

“Please,” Clove says. “Knife through the temple. Instant death.” Cato starts to laugh, so Clove does too. She slips off of his chest and lies down beside him. “How would you actually wanna die?” she asks. “Like if you had to but you got to pick.” Cato shrugs, and Clove can feel his shoulder move against hers. 

“Who cares?” he asks. “We’re not gonna die.”

“We will one day,” Clove says. “Mom says everyone dies.” 

“Not us,” Cato pronounces. “We’re gonna live forever.” Clove laughs at the determined look on his face. Cato laughs, and rolls over to pin her down again.

Clove gets her first kill at twelve years old, two years before Cato’s first. She isn’t a natural born killer, not like Cato is, but she is, as the official reports say, “scrappy”. They mean desperate. They mean that she was going to get kicked out of the training program, because she was small for her age even then and kind of nutty and way more interested in strategy than strength, and she did what she had to do to survive.

The boy was named Humphrey and he was small too, and asked too many questions all the time. It was her or him that winter, and everyone knew it. What they were waiting for was for one of them to fall far enough behind, or, conversely, for one of them to come up with a new skill to save their butts for another half-year, something like rope tying. 

In all honesty, Clove wouldn’t have minded leaving the program if it wasn’t for Cato. She could go to real school, learn about their mines and the peacekeeping program. Maybe, later, take a government job like her father. But trainees and non trainees do not fraternize, not among the young in District Two. And Cato…Cato is the only thing that makes sense in the entire world. Everything else is confusing in a way that hurts her brain sometimes—how the Capitol claims to love the citizens of Panem but still hurts them, how her father does the same to her—but not Cato. He makes sense. He’s her best friend, and best friends stick together. 

She figures out a way to smuggle out and then sharpen a training knife. Practices in Cato’s backyard for a week while he watches with that intimidatingly calm gaze of his. Doesn’t tell him the plan even though he wants her to, once he figures out she’s planning something. Brings the knife back in. Throws it through Humphrey’s side the next day. 

She only meant to maim him, not to kill him. She gets in so much trouble. Double the tesserae in the reaping. A week away from training. It’s all for show. In the report, they make it clear they do not condone her actions. In real life, they bump her up another level and give her her own set of knives and designate a trainer just to her.

She’s not a natural born killer, but a well groomed one, and by the time she’s sixteen, a really good one. 

On the train, Clove watches in silence as Cato stuffs his mouth full of capitol food and talks strategy with their mentors. Clove remembers their games, remembers watching them in training. She fought with a sword, like a knight; he fought with a spear, and, when that broke, with a pair of brass knuckles. As they smear various brightly colored jams on fluffy bread, Clove catalogues their weaknesses. 

Two is close enough to the Capitol that they don’t have time to sleep on the train; luckily they get shown to their rooms as soon as they arrive.

“Get some sleep, now,” their female mentor says to them, briskly. “We’ll see the stylists first thing in the morning.” 

They’ve been given two separate rooms but firmly ignore Cato’s. They slip out of their clothing, ignoring the too soft sleepwear the Capitol has provided, and climb under Clove’s covers, pulling them up over their heads.

“Don’t fucking say a word,” Cato starts, preemptively. “I’m not arguing with you about this.” 

“You’re being an asshole,” Clove says. 

“I don’t want to live without you, Clover,” Cato responds. “And I’m not going to watch you die.”

“Haven’t you ever considered that I feel the same way?” Clove demands. “Why did you fucking volunteer, once you knew I was going?”

“To protect you,” Cato says. Clove huffs out a laugh.

“Please,” she says. “You just couldn’t miss an opportunity to prove yourself. The pride of District Two.” That shuts Cato up for a moment. He looks genuinely hurt.  _ Good,  _ Clove thinks. She wants him to be in pain right now. 

“Think whatever you want, Clover,” Cato responds. “It’s not going to change what happens.” Cato throws an arm around Clove and holds her close, and she lets him. He’s not forgiven, but he’s still hers.

Clove’s known for years that her angle in the games is going to be being the crazy one, but it doesn’t make her feel better when she actually does start hearing voices. She tries telling her trainer and he laughs her off, tells her to leave that for the stage. 

She doesn’t tell Cato. Instead she shuts herself off from him, from everyone, except the seemingly endless march of people in her head. She spends the next few days in a storm of paranoia, lashing out whenever anyone comes near her, which doesn’t exactly hurt during training but does serve to further terrify her peers. She heads straight home that weekend, but with the combination of her father drinking downstairs and the voices howling in her brain, she leaves within an hour. 

Cato finds her a few hours later in their little cave in the quarry, with a knife in either hand. He drops to his knees in front of her, and reaches for her carefully. Clato slashes at him with a knife; he scrambles away from her quickly.

“What the fuck, Clove?” He holds his hands up, trying to look unthreatening, which is a first. 

“How do I know you’re real?” Clove demands. 

“Oh,” Cato says. “Fuck.” He crawls slightly closer. “I am real, Clover, I swear. Please, Clove. Please, you don’t have to trust anyone else, but please, please trust me.”

“You’re my best friend,” Clove says. Her voice is very small. 

“That’s right,” Cato encourages. “Always have been.”

“I trust you,” Clove whispers. “But I don’t want to put down the knives.” 

“You don’t have to,” Cato says. He crawls until he’s fully in her space, then pulls her into his arms. Clove starts to cry into his chest, and Cato shifts unconsciously, trying to hide her vulnerability from an imaginary audience. This is for him and Clove alone.

“I don’t want to end up like my mother,” Clove cries. 

“You won’t,” Cato promises. “Cause you have me.”

(The voices torture her for years. In the Capitol, during a preliminary health check, a relatively unimportant doctor hands her a vial of pills. She takes one, and the voices go away instantly. 

“Tell me if that works,” the doctor says, “and we’ll inject you with a serum that’ll stick in your system longer, for the arena.” Clove stops taking the pills after a few days. She has Cato, and it’s much safer to depend on him than the little while tablets.)

The weeks before their games pass in a blur. They move through it all—the chariot ride, training, the interview, all of it—with an almost mechanical kind of precision. Cato almost resents it. He was never going to enjoy the games, his mentors made that clear enough, but he still thought that he’d get to revel in the attention and the power and the strange sort of freedom the games provide. He looked forward to getting to demonstrate each and every skill he’s mastered over the years, a victory lap of sorts. He was going to bring glory to his district. And then he was going to go home, to Clove. 

Everything is different now. Every step he takes, every word out of his mouth, it’s not about glory. It’s about getting Clove home. 

There are some ways that having Clove there is better than the experience he imagined. It’s kind of fun to train with her like this, to perform with her in the terrifying double act they’ve perfected. Whenever he wants to laugh—maybe at the air of martyrdom of the girl from 12, or the way the girl from 1 (glow? glitter? he has to learn her name soon, they’re going to be allies) holds a bow—he looks across to Clove and knows that she’s thinking the exact same thing. And, at the end of the day, whenever whatever posturing they’re scheduled to do that day is done, he gets to go back to her room with her.

While prepping for their interviews, their mentors decide they can stay close to the truth while still maintaining their pre-approved personas. Caesar catches on to what they’re telegraphing pretty quickly. In Cato’s interview, Caesar refers to him and Clove as “partners in crime.”

“Is that accurate?” Caesar asks. Cato cocks his head. 

“You could say that,” he says. His interview runs slightly long, which is a good sign, and he bounds off the stage with a smug smile at the audience. Offstage, the tributes who have already gone wait in a green room, watching the remaining interviews on a giant screen. Clove walks over to him as soon as he enters and punches him in the arm, hard, though there’s a smile on her face.

“Partners in crime,” she scoffs. “That’s one way to say it.” 

When the boy from 12 brings out the whole ‘star-crossed lovers’ thing, Cato clenches his jaw and squeezes his hand into fists. Beside him, Clove goes still. When the last interview ends, a door at the back of the room opens, and one of the mentors informs them to go to their rooms. Cato and Clove push past the other tributes, and get into the first elevator with a few other impatient tributes. No one speaks. Cato and Clove get off on the second floor. 

As soon as they get to their rooms, Cato explodes. He smashes through anything and everything in his path, shouting all of the while. Their escort looks terrified, even their mentors look perturbed. Clove, on the other hand, gets angry at Cato’s anger and pushes into Cato’s space, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to look into her eyes. 

“It wouldn’t have worked for us anyway!” Clove shouts. “Think about it, Cato! Look at us! Use your brain for one fucking second!” Their escort visibly winces, but Cato doesn’t escalate. Instead he growls, once, then stills, staring into Clove’s eyes. “I wouldn’t want them to know anyway,” Clove continues, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “It’s none of their fucking business.” Cato swallows then averts his gaze, eyes stinging with tears. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “You’re right.” Their male mentor seems to take this as an opportunity to talk.

“Alrighty,” he says. “Let’s debrief the interviews.”

“We’re gonna go to bed now,” Clove replies, leaving no room for argument. “It’s been a long fucking day. We’ll see you in the morning.” Without waiting for a response, Clove moves a hand to Cato’s back and guides him to their shared room. She slams the door behind them. 

Clove is the very first person who lets Cato hold a baby. There aren’t a ton of babies in Two to begin with, because they don’t procreate like bunnies like in some of the poorer districts, which makes them all the more precious. And, through a combination of genetics and hard work, Cato is huge and strong and intimidating, so people generally don’t want him near the babies that do exist.

The baby Clove gives him is her sister’s. He’s still so tiny, all soft dark hair and alert little eyes and itty bitty fingernails. Cato can’t believe something like him can survive long enough to become something hard and jaded like Cato himself. Clove introduces them to the baby as “Aunt Clover and Uncle Cato.” Then she turns to Cato with the baby in her arms. 

“Wanna hold him?” She asks, smiling like she knows how scared he is. “Come on, don’t be a pussy.” Cato knows a dare when he hears one. He reaches out and takes the baby. He’s small and soft and fragile in Cato’s arms. Cato can feel his hands shake and focuses on not dropping or squishing the baby.

“You want kids?” he asks, averting his gaze so he’s not looking at Clove or the baby. Clove snorts. 

“Please,” she says. “Can you imagine? The two of us? Raising a baby?” Cato bristles. Together, he and Clove are unstoppable. He doesn’t like the thought of Clove having any doubts about them and what they’re capable of.

“We’d figure it out,” he huffs. Clove leans her head against his side.

“Maybe in another world,” she says softly. Cato knows what she means. It’s a fucked up enough world as it is, and as a child of two Victors, he can’t help but feel their child would have an uncomfortably high chance of being “randomly selected” for the games. Still, he can’t help but imagine it: him and Clove and a baby or two, laughing and joking and coping together, teaching their kid how to be tough on the outside and soft when it’s safe.

“Yeah,” he agrees, handing Clove’s nephew back to her. “In another world.”

Right before they’re set to get onto the platforms and head up into their arena, their mentors arrange for Cato and Clove to get a moment alone. Clove comes into the room where Cato has just finished with his stylist. She looks at him, silently, then runs her hands through his perfectly styled hair until it looks messier. More normal.

“I love you,” Cato says. His voice is raw. “I wanted to say it while I still had a chance.”

“I love you too,” Clove says. She looks down before she can cry. When she looks back up, she has schooled her expression back into her game face. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?” She asks rhetorically. 

“No,” he says. “Nothing we can do now but give them a good show.” Clove gives him a goodbye kiss, the last kiss they’ll ever share. Then she walks away without a word. 

The day before the reaping, Cato and Clove go to their cave. She brings a sewing kit, he brings a bottle of alcohol stolen from his parents. 

Marriage in Two is generally a stiff, formal occasion, at least in terms of the official ceremony. Most people go to their town hall and do it there, then have a small party at the couple’s new home. There is another tradition, passed down through the young of District Two, most of whom never make it to old age. 

In the cave, Cato and Clove strip down to their undershirts. They sit across from each other, legs crossed. Cato pulls out the alcohol and they drink until they’re just buzzed enough that everything seems a little bit funny. Cato starts laughing out loud when Clove struggles to find the sewing kit, but they both sober up as soon as she pulls out the needle. 

“There’s still time to back out,” Clove says, only to see the look on Cato’s face and to hear the response she knows is coming.

“Never in a million years,” he says. She holds out her hand, and Cato puts his into it, palm up. Clove leans over and pricks his ring finger with the needle, deep enough to make him bleed. He winces, almost minutely, then reaches out for the needle. She gives it to him; he takes it. Clove puts her other hand in her own palm, and Cato performs the same little ritual. As soon as he’s drawn blood, he drops the needle. Clove makes a little noise of protest, but she can’t help but smile. 

They press their hands together, lining up their ring fingers and pressing them together.

“I do,” Cato says.

“I do,” Clove says. 

They lean forward until their foreheads are touching, until they’re sharing breath, just as they’re sharing blood. Just as they’re going to share a life together, one day. They smile at each other, secure in their plan: he’ll win this year and she’ll win the year after and they’ll live happily ever after. They will.


End file.
